Ebooks, Fiction, Non-Fiction 1000s of Free books
and stories online to read now ~ Main Page

Miss Henderson's
Thanksgiving Day

by Horatio Alger
Jr.

THANKSGIVING day dawned clearly and frostily upon the little
village of Castleton Hollow. The stage, which connected daily with the
nearest railroad station—for as yet Castleton Hollow had not arrived
at the dignity of one of its own—came fully freighted both inside and
out. There were children and children's children, who, in the pursuit
of fortune, had strayed away from the homes where they first saw the
light, but who were now returning to revive around the old familiar
hearth the associations and recollections of their early days.

Great were the preparations among the housewives of Castleton
Hollow. That must indeed be a poor household which, on this occasion,
could not boast its turkey and plum pudding, those well-established
dishes, not to mention its long rows of pies—apple, mince and
pumpkin—wherewith the Thanksgiving board is wont to be garnished.

But it is not of the households generally that I propose to speak.
Let the reader accompany me in imagination to a rather prim-looking
brick mansion, situated on the principal street, but at some distance
back, being separated from it by a front yard. Between this yard and
the fence, ran a prim-looking hedge of very formal cut, being cropped
in the most careful manner, lest one twig should by chance have the
presumption to grow higher than its kindred. It was a two story house,
containing in each story one room on either side of the front door,
making, of course, four in all.

If we go in, we shall find the, outward primness well supported by
the appearance of things within. In the front parlor—we may peep
through the door, but it would be high treason in the present
moistened state of our boots, to step within its sacred
precincts—there are six high backed chairs standing in state, two at
each window. One can easily see from the general arrangement of the
furniture, that from romping children, unceremonious kittens, and
unhallowed intruders generally, this room is most sacredly guarded.

Without speaking particularly of the other rooms, which, though not
furnished in so stately a manner, bear a family resemblance to "the
best room," we will usher the reader into the opposite room, where he
will find the owner and occupant of this prim-looking residence.

Courteous reader, Miss Hetty Henderson. Miss Hetty Henderson, let
me make you acquainted with this lady (or gentleman), who is desirous
of knowing you better.

Miss Hetty Henderson, with whom the reader has just passed through
the ceremony of introduction, is a maiden of some thirty-five summers,
attired in a sober-looking dress, of irreproachable neatness, but most
formal cut. She is the only occupant of the house, of which likewise
she is proprietor. Her father, who was the village physician, died
some ten years since, leaving to Hetty, or perhaps I should give her
full name, Henrietta, his only child, the house in which he lived, and
some four thousand dollars in bank stock, on the income of which she
lived very comfortably.

Somehow, Miss Hetty had never married, though, such is the
mercenary nature of man, the rumor of her inheritance brought to her
feet several suitors. But Miss Hetty had resolved never to marry—at
least, this was her invariable answer to matrimonial offers, and so
after a time it came to be understood that she was fixed for life—an
old maid. What reasons impelled her tothis course were not known, but
possibly the reader will be furnished with a clue before he finishes
this narrative.

Meanwhile, the invariable effect of a single and solitary life
combined, attended Hetty. She grow precise, prim and methodical to a
painful degree. It would have been quite a relish if one could have
detected a stray thread even upon her well swept carpet, but such was
never the case.

On this particular day—this Thanksgiving day of which we are
speaking—Miss Hetty had completed her culinary preparations, that is,
she had stuffed her turkey, and put it in the oven, and kneaded her
pudding, for, though but one would be present at the dinner, and that
herself, her conscience would not have acquitted her, if she had not
made all the preparations to which she had been accustomed on such
occasions.

This done, she sat down to her knitting, casting a glance every now
and then at the oven to make sure that all was going on well. It was a
quiet morning, and Miss Hetty began to think to the clicking of her
knitting needles.

"After all," thought she, "it's rather solitary taking dinner
alone, and that on Thanksgiving day. I remember a long time ago, when
my father was living, and my brothers and sisters, what a merry time
we used to have round eth table. But they are all dead, and I—I alone
am left!"

Miss Hetty sighed, but after a while the recollections of those old
times returned. She tried to shake them off, but they had a
fascination about them after all, and would not go at her bidding.

"There used to be another there," thought she, "Nick Anderson. He,
too, I fear, is dead."

Hetty heaved a thoughtful sigh, and a faint color came into her
cheeks. She had reason. This Nicholas Anderson had been a medical
student, apprenticed to her father, or rather placed with him to be
prepared for his profession. He was, perhaps, a year older than Hetty,
and had regarded her with more than ordinary warmth of affection. He
had, in fact, proposed to her, and had been conditionally accepted, on
a year's probation. The trouble was, he was a little disposed to be
wild, and being naturally of a lively and careless temperament, did
not exercise sufficient discrimination in the choice of his
associates. Hetty had loved him as warmly as one of her nature could
love. She was not one who would be drawn away beyond the dictates of
reason and judgment by the force of affection. Still it was not
without a feeling of deep sorrow— deeper than her calm manner led him
to suspect—that at the end of the year's probation, she informed
Anderson that the result of his trial was not favorable to his suit,
and that henceforth he must give up all thoughts of her.

To his vehement asseverations, promises and protestations, she
returned the same steady and inflexible answer, and, at the close of
the interview, he left her, quite as full of indignation against her
as of grief for his rejection.

That night his clothing was packed up, and lowered from the window,
and when the next morning dawned it was found that he had left the
house, and as was intimated in a slight note pencilled and left on the
table in his room, never to return again.

While Miss Henderson's mind was far back in the past, she had not
observed the approach of a man, shabbily attired, accompanied by a
little girl, apparently some eight years of age. The man's face bore
the impress of many cares and hardships. The little girl was of
delicate appearance, and an occasional shiver showed that her garments
were too thin to protect her sufficiently from the inclemency of the
weather.

"This is the place, Henrietta," said the traveller at length,
pausing at the head of the gravelled walk which led up to the front
door of the prim-looking brick house.

Together they entered, and a moment afterwards, just as Miss Hetty
was preparing to lay the cloth for dinner, a knock sounded through the
house.

"Goodness!" said Miss Hetty, fluttered, "who can it be that wants
to see me at this hour?"

Smoothing down her apron, and giving a look at the glass to make
sure that her hair was in order, she hastened to the door.

"Will it be asking too much, madam, to request a seat by your fire
for myself and little girl for a few moments? It is very cold."

Miss Hetty could feel that it was cold. Somehow, too, the appealing
expression of the little girl's face touched her, so she threw the
door wide open, and bade them enter.

Miss Hetty went on preparing the table for dinner. A most
delightful odor issued from the oven, one door of which was open, lest
the turkey should overdo. Miss Hetty could not help observing the
wistful glance cast by that little girl towards the tempting dish as
she placed it on the table.

"Poor little creature," thought she, "I suppose it is a long time
since she has had a good dinner."

Then the thought struck her: "Here I am alone to eat all this.
There is plenty enough for half a dozen. How much these poor people
would relish it."

By this time the table was arranged.

"Sir," said she, turning to the traveller, "you look as if you were
hungry as well as cold. If you and your little daughter would like to
sit up, I should be happy to have you."

"Thank you, madam," was the grateful reply. "We are hungry, and
shall be much indebted to your kindness."

It was rather a novel situation for Miss Hetty, sitting at the head
of the table, dispensing food to others beside herself. There was
something rather agreeable about it.

"Will you have some of the dressing, little girl—I have to call
you that, for I don't know your name," she added, in an inquiring
tone.

"Her name is Henrietta, but I generally call her Hetty," said the
traveller.

"What!" said Miss Hetty, dropping the spoon in surprise.

"She was named after a very dear friend of mine," said he, sighing.

"May I ask," said Miss Hetty, with excusable curiosity, "what was
the name of this friend. I begin to feel quite an interest in your
little girl," she added, half apologetically.

"Her name was Henrietta Henderson," said the stranger.

"Why, that is my name," ejaculated Miss Hetty.

"And she was named after you," said the stranger, composedly.

"Why, who in the world are you?" she asked, her heart beginning to
beat unwontedly fast.

"Then you don't remember me?" said he, rising, and looking steadily
at Miss Hetty. "Yet you knew me well in bygone days—none better. At
one time it was thought you would have joined your destiny to mine—"

"Nick Anderson!" said Miss Hetty, rising in confusion.

"You are right. You rejected me, because you did not feel secure of
my principles. The next day, in despair at your refusal, I left the
house, and, ere forty-eight hours had passed, was on my way to India.
I had not formed the design of going to India in particular, but in my
then state of mind I cared not whither I went. One resolution I
formed, that I would prove by my conduct that your apprehensions were
ill-founded. I got into a profitable business. In time I married—not
that I had forgotten you, but that I was solitary and needed
companionship. I had ceased to hope for yours. By-and-by a daughter
was born. True to my old love, I named her Hetty, and pleased myself
with the thought that she bore some resemblance to you. Since then, my
wife has died, misfortunes have come upon me, and I found myself
deprived of all my property. Then came yearnings for my native soil. I
have returned, as you see, not as I departed, but poor and careworn."

While Nicholas was speaking, Miss Hetty's mind was filled with
conflicting emotions. At length, extending her hand frankly, she said:

"I feel that I was too hasty, Nicholas. I should have tried you
longer. But at least I may repair my injustice. I have enough for us
all. You shall come and live with me."

"I can only accept your generous offer on one condition," said
Nicholas.

"And what is that?"

"That you will be my wife!"

A vivid blush came over Miss Hetty's countenance. She couldn't
think of such a thing, she said. Nevertheless, an hour afterwards the
two united lovers had fixed upon the marriage day.

The house does not look so prim as it used to do. The yard is
redolent with many fragrant flowers; the front door is half open,
revealing a little girl playing with a kitten.

"Hetty," says a matronly lady, "you have got the ball of yarn all
over the floor. What would your father say if he should see it?"

"Never mind, mother, it was only kitty that did it."

Marriage has filled up a void in the heart of Miss Hetty. Though
not so prim, or perhaps careful, as she used to be, she is a good deal
happier. Three hearts are filled with thankfulness at every return of
MISS HENDERSON'S THANKSGIVING DAY.